Indigestion

Turns out the title of last night’s post was not accurate at all. In fact, I did not sleep well. Instead, I woke up two hours later, vomitted up the contents of my stomach, hocked up whatever acid had backed up into my sinuses, and crashed into a scratchy, irritated coma. I don’t know if the Angelina baby has anything to do with it. Here are some photos:

This is a place I canvassed in Forest Grove. A good chunk of it was foggy, industrial backstreets. There was also a factory that bottled jam, whose motto on the sign is, “Kicking out the Jams.”


Wakeena Falls:


My house, as taken by Catfish:


I started another fire in the kitchen. Macaroni and Cheese this time:


Last night when I was canvassing I rang a doorbell that sent a gnat into a nearby spiderweb. He struggled for about a minute, then when he stopped moving, a black and orange striped spider scampered across the web. It was a very symmetrical, neat web, and the spider was methodical about going after the bug. He moved quick and steady toward the bug, got within a few inches and started plucking the strands the bug was stuck in. Plucking them hard with his strongest front legs. I don’t know why he did it, but it scared the shit out of me. It was like he trying to terrify the bug for fun, and immediately after, darted right for it. It actually sent a shiver through my whole body and I had to take a step back, like I was hiding in a closet watching a murderer quickly cutting a woman’s throat. The rest was more impressive than scary. All of his legs and tiny mouth legs were spinning like he was being timed. The bug didn’t even move while the spider hugged his body close and started wrapping him up. Then the spider and the dying bug ran to the very center of the web, where he finished the job. I knocked on the door and thought about pointing the display out to the owner. I didn’t. She didn’t become a member of the Sierra Club.

I don’t think there’s any link, symbolic or otherwise, between political canvassing and spiders. But I do see them hovering above me in front of a majority of the porch lights I walk up to. I figure my knocking and the spider’s patience have probably sent many gnats to their doom. That said, I also figure, statistically, considering I knock on nearly 100 doors a day five days a week, I’ve probably stood on the doorstep of a murderer or two. Occasionally, I imagine someone all tied up and duct-taped, crying or limp with exhaustion in the corner of a house while a normal looking guy tells me through the cracked doorway that, no, he’s not interested in protecting the coasts and wildlands tonight. Or more likely, he’s already a member, and I thank him so much for his generosity.

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